Next morning Mr. Bailey woke at dawn, a rare thing for him and an
unpleasant one. He did not ring his bell: he hoped perhaps for further
sleep, but he felt wonderfully wakeful. The morning was fresh; he went
and pulled aside the curtain, he threw open the window towards the day,
and sniffed the eager air; his mischievous brain was alert and full of
plans; he was seeking what he might devour.
In this mood there suddenly recurred to him the night before, and
though he was alone he beamed to himself at the recollection of it.
He first considered, in that minute manner to which such natures are
given, how best he could reply, and in a little while he had decided.
He dressed and went out, ate his breakfast at a little workmen's
chop-house in one of the back streets--where he was sufficiently stared
at--and then walked smartly northward and eastward towards Mickleton,
musing as he went, and with every step he took his plan grew more
defined. Of all the men of Mickleton, Mr. Clay, he found, carried most
weight. His courage in starting business for a third time, his large
number of workmen, the rates he paid, his Swedenborgianism, all counted
in the suburb: he had paid Mr. Clay assiduous court for a fortnight,
and Mr. Clay was delighted at the honour.
It was half-past nine when he found Mr. Clay in his office, strict and
starched as ever, and, as ever, in some incomprehensible hurry to get
on to the next affair.
"Clay," he said, "can you lend me the big shed to-night?"
"Yes," said Mr. Clay with the rapidity of decision that had already
lost him one fortune and grievously jeopardised two others. "James," he
said, turning round smartly, "book that. Mr. Bailey takes the big shed
when the men knock off work."
"No, no!" broke in William Bailey, "not when the men knock off work.
It's Saturday man! Half-past eight's the hour."
"Oh!" said Mr. Clay promptly. "James, book that: not when the men knock
off work, half-past eight. Anything more?" he added, turning to Mr.
Bailey as upon a swivel.
"Yes, Clay, certainly," said Mr. Bailey with deliberate hesitation.
"Will the men come?"
"Of course they'll come. I'll tell them to come: they'll come anyhow.
James," he said, turning round again, "note that the men are to come."
The wretched James noted it.
"Anything more?" said Mr. Clay.
"Yes," said Mr. Bailey, "will you take the chair?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Clay. "James, remind me that I take the chair."
"How shall I remind you?" replied the terrified boy.
"How shall you remind me, you fool? Write it down--book it--make a note
of it. Anything more?" he continued.
"No, I think that's about all," said Mr. Bailey. But as he turned to
go slowly out Mr. Clay's curiosity got the better of his extremely
businesslike habits.
"Mr. Bailey," he said, coughing slightly, "Bailey, I beg your pardon,
but what will the meeting be about?"
"Oh, what on earth does that matter?" said Mr. Bailey good-naturedly.
"Just a meeting."
"About the unseating of our member?" asked Mr. Clay anxiously.
"Yes," answered Mr. Bailey with jollity, "all sorts of things of that
sort."
"I'm your man," said Mr. Clay, "I'm your man. None of that about here:
we're free born in Mickleton, we are. Mickleton men," he added,
as though Mickleton were an island that had fiercely defended its
independence in long and bloody wars--"Mickleton men, Mr. Bailey." Then
he nodded, and remembering the true secret of success, began writing
rapidly again.
Mr. Bailey sauntered out. He looked about him to find his direction,
turned down Mafeking Avenue, and when towards ten o'clock he had
reached the agents for the Second Jubilee Hall and the Coronation
Annexe, his foolish and disastrous intention was fixed.
He entered abruptly into his business and told the clerk that he must
countermand the use of the building for that night. He was willing to
pay the £40 for it as though he had hired it, and in case they could
get another let at so short a notice, half that sum.
The clerk had been warned by his principal that Mr. Bailey would
probably telephone or still more likely call in person that morning,
and professed a need to consult the head of the firm before he could
give a reply. He was careful to leave Mr. Bailey with a copy of the
_Times_ while he went into the principal's private room, and Mr.
Bailey, who had not seen that paper for some months, gloomily read a
leader upon foreign affairs, in which his warped judgment pretended to
detect the hand of the redoubtable and ubiquitous Abraham. He had not
been engaged in this fashion for five minutes, when the clerk returned
and told him in a firm voice they could not accept his offer.
"How do you mean you can't accept it?" demanded Mr. Bailey in very
genuine astonishment and with still more genuine irritation. "You can't
refuse it!... you mean you can't accept the £20?" he added a little
more gently.
"Yes we can, sir--no I don't, sir," answered the clerk hurriedly and
firmly, while his mouth twitched like that of a Colonial Governor in
time of crisis. "I mean we can't accept it, sir, it can't be done."
"But it's got to be done," roared Mr. Bailey. "You can't force me to
hold my meeting if I don't want to!"
"No, sir, certainly not, sir," said the clerk.
"Then what the hell do you mean?" shouted the blasphemous fellow.
"I mean that we can't take a plain inclusive payment for the loss and
disturbance, sir. We can't do it."
"What _do_ you mean?" said Mr. Bailey.
The clerk answered that he must consult his principal again, and Mr.
Bailey, restraining himself with a considerable effort, sat down to
finish the leader which he was more convinced than ever had proceeded
from the pen of the mythical Hebrew. It was a long while before the
clerk returned, for it had been necessary to communicate by telephone
with the Duke of Battersea, and at such an early hour it was not easy
to obtain the philanthropist's reply.
"We'll take your offer, sir," said the clerk.
"Oh you will, will you?" said Mr. Bailey, "then you won't have the
chance. I'll hold the meeting just the same. So there!" he added, a
little vulgarly, and stalked out.
It is undecided, flighty action of this sort which leads to half the
trouble in this world. Mr. Bailey had not the remotest intention of
holding the meeting in the original hall. In that his somewhat wayward
decision stood firm. With that object he had seen Mr. Clay; and he
was wise, for the forces against him were too strong to permit him to
call the meeting in the Second Jubilee Hall or even in the Coronation
Annexe; they were strong enough to prevent his holding it in any public
building. But this sudden rise of temper on his part proved a source of
considerable irritation and expense to others, who should not have been
made responsible for it.
The conversation that passed over the telephone, between the Duke of
Battersea and the agent, was singularly and needlessly acrimonious
upon the part of the aged statesman, almost servile upon the part
of the agent; both emotions might surely have been spared to two men
who at heart knew themselves to be worthy of nobler things, had not
Mr. Bailey, by his precipitate ill-temper, destroyed arrangements
which would probably have been for his own good, and certainly for
that of the community at large. The upshot of the conversation was
that the Duke, despairing of understanding the situation, announced
his intention of coming himself to Mickleton by noon, and the agent,
pleased as he was at the advertisement that such a visit must afford
him, would willingly have foregone the honour for the sake of that
peace which he feared never to regain.
At noon the motor-car glode up with its tiny strawberry leaf coronet
and the dainty arms upon the panels.
The agent came out, was obsequious, deferential, intelligent and full
of sympathy, but unfortunately incapable of the rapid perception
which was demanded of him. His only reply was that he could not see
how he could do it; that he would do everything he could; he would be
delighted to withdraw the placards which were even now being got ready
to stand outside the hall; he would make what difficulties he could for
the admission of the Press--though he very much doubted his power to
exclude reporters once the hall was hired. When, in the midst of his
excuses, he suddenly let light into his caller's mind by saying:
"And of course everything would be subject to the proprietors."
"Who are then the proprietors?" said the Duke sharply.
"The Anglo-Saxon Exchange," said the agent with that touch of pride
which we all feel when we mention any important power with which we
have even a distant connection.
The Duke was relieved.
"That I should also have known," he said gently, and then changing his
manner altogether he added:
"That is _allright_, that is _allright_," separating the first two
words and laying stress upon the first syllable of the last, in a
manner which still faintly betrayed those difficulties with the English
language which he had had the courage and the perseverance to conquer
almost completely.
He went away in a frame of mind at which the agent was at once too
polite and too humble to wonder, but which was certainly far less
agitated than that in which he had come. It was a heavy strain to
fall upon a man of the Duke of Battersea's age, and one that should
have been spared him, but no one knew better than that strong genius
of finance what things may be done by deputy and what things must be
done in person. Nor will any of my readers regret that the old man's
investigation should have left him freed of the fears which the vicious
and unpatriotic conduct of an irresponsible eccentric had aroused.
A little after lunch Mr. Kahn, the secretary of the Anglo Saxon
Exchange, happened to drop in at the agent's in Mickleton. There was
nothing unexpected in the visit. His few questions turned upon the
usual topics, whether the hall had recently let well, who had taken
it, whether the more disturbed political meetings had done any damage,
whether it was now worth applying for a licence, &c. It occurred to
him to ask, just as he was going away, when the hall was likely to be
let next, and to whom, as there were certain reparations which the
architect for the estate had decided upon.
The reappearance of this terrible subject once more disturbed the
restored equanimity of the agent.
"Oh, dear," he said, "it's let--in a manner of speaking."
"What's in a manner of speaking?" said the astonished secretary.
"Well, a gentleman's got it anyhow, and then he didn't want it, and now
he wants it again."
"Oh nonsense!" said Mr. Kahn, "we can't play the fool with the County
Council. The platform's declared unsafe; we must have the workmen come
in. I thought there were several days to do it in and I wasn't in any
hurry, but it certainly can't be done in a couple of hours. You'll have
to tell your man he can't have it."
The appearance of this further complication almost drove the wretched
agent mad. Excusing himself for perhaps the fifth time that day and
rushing to the telephone he called up Mr. Bailey and entreated him to
cancel the engagement. But Mr. Bailey was in a dour mood, and as he sat
indulging in his habitual excess of port after a solitary lunch, he
darted into his receiver the most positive and vicious refusal, saying
plainly that if his rights were tampered with he would sue for damages.
The agent came back with the substance, though not with the expletives
of this reply, and the secretary of the Anglo-Saxon Exchange, pulling
out his watch, said briefly:
"Well, there's no help for it. We must send in the workmen at once, and
if he wants to sue he can sue."
In an hour a considerable body of healthy but somnolent men slouched
into the building, their chief showed his written orders, and the
remainder of the afternoon was spent in removing benches, opening
up the floor, barricading the door, cutting off the electric
light from the main (nothing is more dangerous than to leave such
connections during repairs), digging a deep trench in front of the
back entrance, and in other ways setting about improvements that were
doubtless necessary, but that would make it highly inconvenient for
any considerable body to gather within for political or for any other
purposes.
The agent, after repeated conversations with Mr. Bailey, each more
conciliatory than the last, promised and despatched a cheque for £25 on
the distinct understanding that no proceedings should follow; and when
the agent had recovered this sum (as he did with difficulty) from the
Anglo-Saxon Exchange, the expenses of that great financial corporation,
in labour and in compensation, were, I regret to say, considerably over
£100.
Mr. Bailey, seated by his lonely but warm and brilliant hearth, held
the cheque for £25 daintily between his finger and thumb. For a moment
it seemed as though he would have put it in the fire, then with the
subtle smile of the fanatic, he thought better of the business; he
endorsed the cheque and sent it, with a Latin motto pinned on, to
a Jew-baiting organisation in Vienna; a foul gang of which he knew
nothing whatsoever save that he had read its address in one of those
vile Continental rags from which he derived so many of his prejudices,
and whose authority was the origin of his repeated falsehoods.
* * * * *
It had been arranged that Mr. Clutterbuck should pick up Mr. Bailey on
the way, just upon eight o'clock, and drive him to the hall.
He had been late so often that Mr. Bailey was expecting some delay,
but when the quarter had struck, he grew anxious; and at twenty past
he would wait no longer. He had the good luck to get a taxi at the
corner of the square, but even so he would be late. He began to have
doubts, and as he dashed up northwards to Mickleton those doubts in
that diseased brain of his rapidly became certainties. Mr. Clutterbuck
had been nobbled: Mr. Clutterbuck would not appear. Asleep or ill, or
overturned in some ditch, or accidentally locked up in some room, the
ex-Member for Mickleton would not be in Mickleton that night. Such were
the wild fancies which formed in the fanatic's imagination. The truth
was simple and needed no such extravaganza of melodrama as William
Bailey concocted within himself.
Charlie Fitzgerald had had the curiosity to stroll into the old
constituency that morning; he had come back to the centre of town
from Mickleton by two. He had had lunch, of course, with the Duke
of Battersea, who depended every day more and more upon the young
fellow's conversation and wit. Mr. Bailey's latest insanity, which
Charlie Fitzgerald happened to have heard of during his visit to
Mickleton in the morning, was naturally touched upon in their
conversation; they laughed at the cunning which had hired Mr. Clay's
shed, and they discussed the chances of the extempore meeting, but the
happy young Irishman was not without a sense of duty; he would not
leave his employer unaided, nor did the Duke of Battersea press him too
eagerly to remain.
By half-past four, therefore, he was back at The Plâs, ready with his
cheery voice to give Mr. Clutterbuck energy for the evening's business.
He suggested a run round in one of the motors before going straight
into town; there was a fine heartening wind from the south-west, with
heavy clouds; it was just the afternoon to take an hour or two of the
air before turning in after dark to London and duty. The suggestion was
excellent, as were most of Charlie's suggestions, and Mr. Clutterbuck,
carefully rolling up the speech that Mr. Bailey had written for him,
and thrusting it into his breast pocket, put on his great fur coat and
gloves, and ordered one of the smaller cars to come round.
"Nothing braces one up like a sharp bit of motoring before a speech,"
said Mr. Clutterbuck, as he got into the open Renault.
Charlie Fitzgerald was occupied in hauling away at the barrel organ in
front of the radiator. He made faces as he did so.
Mr. Clutterbuck was rubbing his hands nervously and glancing at the sky.
"It looks dark," he went on, still rubbing his hands, "but I dare say
nothing will come of it."
Charlie Fitzgerald, with a face more hideous than any yet drawn, gave
a final tug at the starting handle and the machine began to throb.
He jumped up by Mr. Clutterbuck's side and steered slowly past the
lodge into the Croydon Road, while Mr. Clutterbuck kept on harping at
his side upon the advantages of a sharp spin before a speech, and the
doubtfulness of the weather. They fell into the main road and turned
sharply to the left.
"Taking us far afield?" said Mr. Clutterbuck cheerfully. Nothing
pleased him more than the experience of his secretary in the driving of
a car. "Godalming, eh?"
Charlie Fitzgerald spoke for the first time:
"Something of that kind," he said. "Just a long run.... We'll go
further than Godalming; we'll go right away round, and come into town
from the north and west by the Harrow Road. It's much better like that;
we won't get any of the slums. Let's eat somewhere in the country."
Mr. Clutterbuck was delighted. His honest old soul and his still more
honest old stomach could not quite forget the honest old hours of high
teas and a snack later on.
They shot round the base of the hills, missed a child in Dorking, ran
into Guildford, had a splendid zizz along the Hog's Back, and then
turned sharp round on to the Frimley Road, passed Penny Hill, and on
towards Virginia Water. By the time they reached Staines it was dark.
All the way Mr. Clutterbuck had spoken with increasing joy, and Charlie
Fitzgerald, in spite of his interest in the driving, had been very
human to him. Now the dark had fallen, however, it was necessary that
he should keep silence while he picked his way across country towards
Harrow.
The turnings were bewildering, but Mr. Clutterbuck very properly
trusted to his guide, and when about half-past six he had not yet
perceived the first gas lights of a London street, he only asked quite
casually whereabouts they were.
Charlie Fitzgerald answered with perfect straightforwardness that they
must be somewhere near North Holty and Pinner by the look of the lanes,
and he would take the next turning to the right; it would put them into
Bruton well before eight, but they would have no time for more than a
snack on the way. The next turning to the right he duly took and then
for many miles the road appeared to lead through a maze of turnings
until they found themselves steadily ascending. On the right and the
left were silent woods of beech, and there was no light for miles
around. It was long past 7 o'clock, and Mr. Clutterbuck was seriously
alarmed.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzgerald," he said--it was not often that he
had remonstrated in all these months--"I beg your pardon, but are you
quite certain where you are?"
Then for the first time Charlie Fitzgerald confessed that he was
not absolutely certain; he could not possibly, he said, be far from
Rickmansworth, even if he had gone quite out of his way, and the best
thing they could do was to send a telegram from the next telegraph
office and to ask their way.
As he thus spoke, he suddenly slackened speed at a turn in the road and
began a steep descent which lasted for over a mile. One five minutes
and another went by; there was no sign of a house. At last a light
showed far off to the left of the road.
Fitzgerald pulled up, leapt out with zeal, and came back with the
information that they were at Postcombe, and so far as he could make
out from the rustics who were singularly dull, the next post office
was a mile or two down the road; they were on the right line for
London, but it would be another eighteen miles.
The post office was there right enough, and Fitzgerald went in and sent
a telegram; then he took his seat again and drove through the night.
Mile after mile went by and there was no sign of men.
At Mr. Clutterbuck's age this kind of thing is dangerous; the lack of
food told upon him; the anxiety told upon him still more. He worried
Fitzgerald with continual questions; when they would be in; what
direction they were following; whether he could perceive any glimmer of
London before them.
To these questions his secretary only replied by nervous jerks of the
head as he drove on straight through the darkness. His anxiety was
betrayed by the forward bend of his body and the anxious tightening of
his brows. He had hoped, perhaps, before he had sent the telegram to be
in time. That was now past praying for, but they might at least turn
the confusion of the meeting into a success if only they could make the
lights of London by nine. He pushed the car to its utmost limits of
speed, careless of the thick blackness and of the perpetual windings of
the lanes which he followed with singular confidence.
They passed over a railway line, but there was no station in sight;
they went on and passed another in the same fashion, then a broad river.
At last the motion showed them they were taking yet another long hill.
There was no hedge upon either side, open fields, down; and a bitter
wind driving across them filled the night. It was even too dark to
perceive more than the ghosts of the clouds, when, at what seemed the
loneliest part of this lonely countryside the machine stopped suddenly,
and Charlie Fitzgerald, in a voice of weary despair, muttered half to
himself and half to his companion:
"If it's the king-bolt, we're done!"
He took one of the lanterns from the front of the car, put it down upon
the ground where it would illumine the complicated works beneath, and
lying flat upon his back on the road, he began to inspect the damage.
Mr. Clutterbuck, stooping anxiously with hands on knees, interrogated
him from time to time, but received only disjointed replies in which
king-bolts, the differential, the clutch and Beeton's Patent played a
confused part.
After some few minutes of this investigation Charlie Fitzgerald
reappeared, replaced the lamp, and said in a solemn manner:
"We're cooked!"
It began to snow.
If Mr. Clutterbuck had had the slightest idea where he was, his dolour
might have been to that amount relieved. He had none. He looked at his
watch by the acetylene flare and found that it was nearly ten o'clock.
The monotony of their misfortune was relieved by the approach of a
horse and cart, and they learned from the driver at last the full
extent of their misfortune. They had the choice, it seemed, of two
resting-places that night, equally distant, one was Stow-in-the-Wold;
and the only consolation the situation could offer them was the
certainty that their car had done very well to cover such a distance in
such weather in such a time. For the rest, eight miles in the dark was
not a pleasing prospect, and Charlie Fitzgerald was moved to make one
more attempt at reviving the car.
To Mr. Clutterbuck's astonishment the able young fellow succeeded
this time within a very few moments. They continued the main road and
reached their inn a little before eleven.
* * * * *
Meanwhile in London the meeting had, indeed, pursued a course Mr.
Clutterbuck did not in the least desire.